


Always Good for a Storm

by eudaimon



Category: Fresh Meat (TV)
Genre: F/F, spoilers: season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vod fucked up in Mexico.  She knows that.  These days, she's just glad when Oregon doesn't pull away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Good for a Storm

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Voregon fic. _Fuck_ , I loved writing this XD The poem that Vod suddenly remembers is "Deer Tracks" by Richard Brautigan (and I sneakily sort of stole my last line from him, too). The song that reminds Oregon of Vod is "Cooling" by Tori Amos (who I nicked the title from).
> 
> I hope there's more where this came from.

Vod presses her cheek against the mattress and tries to wiggle her arse higher - in vain as it turns out because she's trussed up pretty brilliantly - hands cuffed together in the small of her back, a belt cinched tight around her thighs and a pretty substantial dildo thrust deep into her cunt. The really attractive dyke (whose name, as it turns out, is _Joy_ ) has turned out to be enthusiastic on the subject of education and, well - Vod's never mind being taught a lesson if she's sure that it's a lesson worth learning.

Which this one definitely seems to be.

Vod gave up playing the wide-eyed first timer about half an hour ago. Now, she's really fucking into it; her arse still sort of stings from an emphatic spanking and her cunt is _throbbing_. She's been wanting to come since they started snogging, since Joy shoved a hand down her trousers, twitched the elastic of her knickers aside and started fingering her right there in the hallway. Vod had bitten her lip and rolled her hips, fucking herself on Joy's finger.

"You're a horrible fucking person," Joy had said, breathed it into Vod's mouth before she kissed her again, all lip-ring and tongue. "That speech was vile. The things you said..."

"I know," said Vod, pulling back sharply for breath. "But I swear I'm willing to work on it."

Wearing her suit again, undressing had been a pain in the arse. Vod undid the buttons on her own waistcoat, shrugging it off her shoulders; her t-shirt and trousers quickly follow, shucked off like skin. Vod loves clothes, loves how she _looks_ in clothes, but she's never minded being naked. Her mum might have tried to guilt it out of her, but she always loved her skin. Joy was still fully dressed as she pushed Vod back onto her bed, as she'd cuffed her hands and scrawled 'SLUT' across her tits in Sharpie.

And here they are.

"Is that the best you've got?" Vod groans, rolling her hips back onto the cock between her thighs which earns her a sharp slap across her arse that only intensifies the sting. She bites her lip over a grin.

"I've got a gag, too, you know," says Joy, and, Jesus, Vod's always had a bit of a thing for posh girls - even if they can, very occasionally, be complete and utter twats. Which is something that Vod can admit even though she loves certain posh girls madly.

Vod can't look back over her shoulder, not in the position that she's in, but she does roll her eyes.

"Promises, promises," she says.

The rubber ball fits snugly between her lips. She bites into it. Sometimes, it feels like she's been fighting her whole life, dragging herself forward one step at a time. It almost feels like a relief, whenever she lets herself be helpless.

Like now, for example. Like right now. Vod's got her hands over her head, chain on the cuffs threaded the bars on the bed. The belt's been discarded, her thighs spread wide, heels digging into the bed as Joy leans down over her, sucks on her nipples. Vod's had a bar through her left nipple since she was sixteen and forged Chris' signature on the permission form. Joy plays with it with the tip of her tongue and Vod feels like she's about to go out of her mind.

 _God, just fuck me,_ she thinks. _Fuck my brains out. Fuck the shit out of me. Do it. Do it. Do it._

Joy really goes to town then, fucking Vod hard and deep, hard enough to rock her against the mattress and Vod's got no choice but to lie there and take it, her tits bouncing with every single thrust. She loves this. Loves it. She's always loved fucking, since she first discovered what fucking _was_. She started with boys first, moved onto girls, makes it her business to try everything at least once. She's been doing this for six years and she has never once felt anything approaching shame.

Not about this, anyway.  
Sex is a pure thing. Sex is nothing to be frightened of. She wasn't bullshitting when she said that sex was the cure, especially when she stops thinking and just concentrates on the bite of the cuffs into her wrists, the slide of the cock between her thighs, the way Joy's breath flutters when the base of the strap-on rubs against her clit with every thrust. Vod sinks into the scent of Joy's skin, the brush of Joy's long hair against the bare skin over her ribs, the sting of her spanked arse against the sheets.

She stops thinking.  
It isn't what she wants, not really, but, right then, it's enough. 

*  
Vod walks home with make-up smeared down her face, her bra in her back pocket, a cigarette between her lips. In the silent city-centre, she throws her arms out like wings and shouts the moon for sure, sudden joy.

She heads home, throwing off sparks.

*

This is not the first time that she's crawled into bed with Oregon. Outside, the light is dirty grey and Vod's still got makeup smeared all down her face. Her suit comes off easier the second time and she crawls under Oregon's duvet in her t-shirt and knickers that are still sodden, a reminder of what she's spent the night doing. It all feels a little bit sordid, a little bit bad-dirty-wrong, but Oregon's hair smells the same as it always does and she's fallen asleep with her iPhone playing through the speakers again.

Oh, Jesus. Tori _fucking_ Amos, too.

"Mmph," says Oregon, rubbing the tip of her nose against the pillow before she lifts her head. "Is that you, Vod?"

"How many other woman you got getting into bed with you at fuck me o'clock?" asks Vod, and, without thinking about it, she throws her arm around Oregon's waist and pulls her in closer. Her arse fits perfect and snug into the cradle of Vod's hips.

"None, actually," says Oregon, stifling a yawn. "Just you. It's only ever you, actually. None of the others have keys."  
"Mmmm," says Vod, pressing her face into the back of Oregon's neck, into her hair. Her hand skims up Oregon's ribs, over the silky, slippery stuff her vest's made of. She cups Oregon's breast (she can never even _think_ of the word 'tits' when it's Oregon) and finds herself almost holding her breath. Since Mexico, it's been touch and go.

Vod was an arsehole in Mexico. She's recently, finally, admitted that to herself.

And because she was an arsehole, sometimes, Oregon pulls away and Vod finds herself having to pretend that every touch is accidental. Those times, Vod curses herself for being a dickhead, for fucking off with Javier when she should have stayed with Oregon. She hates herself for giving up those warm nights in narrow beds, and then time they stood waist deep in the sea and kissed and it was like there were stars in Oregon's fucking hair. She fucked up. She fucked up majorly. But isn't that the story of her life?

So Vod's never surprised when Oregon pulls away from her. It hurts, but she can't blame her.  
But she fucking loves it when Oregon stays. 

Oregon bites her lip and arches, pushing into Vod's hand, her nipple hard against the very centre of Vod's palm. Vod kisses down the side of her neck, down to the bare curve of her shoulder. Oregon's built on a much smaller scale than Vod herself is; Vod had a growth spurt at 13 and has always been this tall, this broad shouldered. At some point in her teens, she figured out how to make awkward work in her favour and she barely even notices it anymore. She's good. She's comfortable in her skin. But sometimes, still, she finds herself marvelling at the fineness of Oregon's bones.

Shit. Listen to her. She's a poet. Frobisher would be fucking _proud_.

Oregon squirms, shifts in Vod's arms until they're facing. She throws one leg up, hooking it over Vod's hip and Vod presses forward into her knee, slipping it between Oregon's knees. It's a familiar position; they know their way by touch. Oregon leans over Vod's shoulder to flick on the lamp and Vod half sits up to tug her t-shirt over her head.

"Jesus, Vod!" says Oregon, eyes widening. "What happened to your...does that say…" She frowns. "Were you _assaulted_?"

The world's changed a lot since last September, but some things are always the same.

"Fuck no," says Vod, pushing her hands up under Oregon's flimsy top. "One hundred percent consensual, mate. I'm thinking of getting it tattooed."  
"Don't you dare," says Oregon, sniffing. "It's misogynistic and...and...sexually inappropriate and…" 

Vod cradles her ribs and rubs her thumbs across Oregon's nipples and Oregon loses whatever it was she was going to say next in a whimper. Vod strips her out of her clothes slowly, taking her time over every, single inch. Her skin still feels faintly electric, like she's throwing off sparks. She bends her head and presses a trail of kisses across Oregon's breasts, pauses to tease Oregon's nipple with her lips and the tip of her tongue. Her hands follow the line of Oregon's sides, which are softer and curve more than her own. Her hips are narrower, though. Oregon's built on a much smaller scale than Vod, which has always been fine - there have been days when Vod would have carved herself out to give Oregon room to crawl inside if she thought that it would keep the silly cow safe.

Vod's always been better at protecting other people  
She never really got the hang of keeping herself safe.

"Oh, God, Vod," says Oregon, eyes hidden by the soft inside of her wrist. "Just...just fuck me. Please."

Vod loves that she says please, even if it is verging on ridiculous. She grins against Oregon's skin and kisses her way down. She loves the way that Oregon is soft and yielding, perfect contrast to the way Vod's taught herself to be hard. Because she hated herself for such a long time and moving into this house, meeting these people? Showed her that that isn't necessarily how it has to be.

Oregon spreads her thighs wider and Vod takes the opportunity to press her hands underneath Oregon's arse, cradling her, lifting her.

"You want me to?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Want me to go down on you?"  
"You'd better," says Oregon, smiling and pretty and soft and, Jesus, if this isn't love then Vod doesn't know what the fuck it's supposed to feel like. "You did wake me up, after all."

Vod doesn't need an excuse, doesn't need a request, doesn't need _please_ , not when she's always loved going down on girls. She loves it with Oregon best of all. She sprawls between Oregon's legs, slides down so her knees are on the floor, so she's solid, and then leans back in, spreads Oregon with her fingers and presses her mouth right against her clit. Vod's self-confidence has always come in weird fits and starts but she _knows_ she's good at this. She gets lost in it, the work of lips and tongue, the movement of her jaw and the way Oregon starts off very still, like she's holding herself in check, and then starts to squirm, her breath coming in little gasping pants, tiny moans. Vod uses her fingers, slides one into Oregon and fucks her slowly, presses another in along side. She feels Oregon touch the top of her head, almost hesitant. Biting her lip, Vod lifts her head just a little and, when Oregon's fingers push into her hair, guide her mouth back down again, it makes her cunt throb. Vod slips her hand between her thighs, into her knickers, rubs her clit as she goes back to giving Oregon the attention she deserves. Stupidly, incongruously, she remembers a poem that she read the other day. _Beautiful, sobbing, high-geared fucking and to lie silently like deer tracks in the snow_.

Fuck knows why she remembers that.

She takes her mouth off Oregon when she can feel that she's about to come, leaves her fingers were they are, fucking her fast now, and shifts up the bed. She's got a desperate need to kiss her, to shove her tongue into Oregon's mouth and feel like she _owns_ her, just for a moment. Their foreheads touch as Oregon starts coming. Vod fucks her through it, stares right into her eyes. It's intense and a little bit weird and, Jesus, she doesn't want to be anywhere but right there.

"Okay?" she asks, her fingers still between Oregon's legs, still inside her. Oregon's trembling slightly, and it takes her a moment to smile.

"Fuck yes," she says and throws her arm around Vod's neck, pulling her down for another, harder kiss.

Vod ends up on her back with her knickers tangled around her thighs and Oregon's fingers rubbing her in tight circles, Oregon pressing butterfly kisses against the racing pulse in her throat. It's slower this, and softer, and Vod closes her eyes and swallow, arching her back, fucking herself slowly.

"You're really, really beautiful," whispers Oregon, her mouth close to Vod's ear. She whispers it, so it must be a secret. Vod's always known that she was hot, but beautiful's something else. Beautiful she doesn't quite get.

But the way Oregon says it, she could almost believe it.

She's sitting up when she comes. They both are. Leaning together. Oregon cradles the side of Vod's neck with her free hand as they kiss. Vod comes so hard that the muscles in her belly tense and ache and, when she's done, she collapses back against the pillows, boneless, pulling Oregon with her.

"Mmmm," says Oregon, burrowing in against Vod's side, pulling the duvet up over both of them. Vod squirms for a moment, kicking out of her knickers altogether so they're naked and pressed together. Oregon curls up against her and Vod wraps both arms around her, rests her cheek against Oregon's tousled hair.

"Three hours," says Oregon, already sounding sleepy. "Three hours and then we have to get up. We've got a…" She yawns. "Goodness. A seminar."

"Whatever you say, Oregon."

"This song always reminds me of you." Another yawn. Vod had actually forgotten that there was music playing at all; she tunes back in and Tori Amos is still playing.  
"Yeah?" She can't see how. She loves Oregon but she wouldn't be seen dead listening to music like this.  
"You've got a lot of...fucking brambles," says Oregon. "But I don't mind storms."

It works, somehow. Vod's not about to argue, anyway, because, sometimes, she feels like nothing so much as a storm contained by skin. But Oregon helps. Oregon makes it quiet. Oregon makes it easier to sleep.

She'll figure out how to get the marker pen off when she gets up. For now, there's just Oregon's breathing and the sound of rain against the window. Sudden rain.

That's all.


End file.
